Where’s Max? At home. Parker suggested leaving him there, but I couldn’t bear it. My neighbor’s bringing him over soon.
As if summoned by discussion, the funeral home door swung open and a pettite woman entered, struggling with Max’s leash. The German shepherd’s disciplined demeanor vanished the moment he entered the viewing room. He froze, ears alert, then began pulling frantically toward the casket, whining in distress.
I’m so sorry the neighbor apologized as Max dragged her forward. He’s never like this. Carson moved to take the leash.
I’ve got him, I am. The moment Carson took control, Max’s behavior intensified. The dog stared at the coffin, his whines turning to sharp, insistent barks that echoed through the hushed room.
Several mourners stepped back in alarm. Detective, please control that animal. Deputy Chief Parker appeared at Carson’s elbow, his voice tight with irritation.
This is highly inappropriate. William Parker had always been meticulous in appearance and demeanor. Today, his uniform was impeccable, his composure controlled perhaps too controlled for a man who’d just lost his superior and mentor of eight years.
Max was Harrison’s dog, Bill. He deserves to be here. The dog is clearly distressed and disrupting the service.
Take him outside. Carson made no move to leave. Instead, he watched Max intently, the detective in him noting every detail of the animal’s behavior.
Max wasn’t just upset he was alerting the same way he’d been trained to signal when finding evidence or detecting danger. Something’s wrong, Carson murmured more to himself than to Parker. The only thing wrong is you’re allowing that animal to disrupt the Chief’s dignified send-off, Parker hissed.
Sarah doesn’t need this additional stress. Across the room, Dr. Elizabeth Miller slipped in quietly, nodding briefly to Carson. Her presence was unexpected, and by the look on Parker’s face, unwelcome.
Was Miller called to examine the body? Carson asked Parker. There was no need. The paramedics confirmed cardiac arrest.
For a police chief, there should be an autopsy. Parker’s jaw tightened. Sarah declined.
She didn’t want Richard subjected to that indignity. Before Carson could respond, Max’s barking reached a new intensity. The dog lunged toward the coffin, nearly pulling Carson off his feet.
Several officers moved to help restrain him. Get him out of here now, or I’ll have him removed, Parker ordered. Carson reluctantly dragged Max toward the exit, the dog fighting him every step.
In the lobby, he encountered Dr. Miller. That’s interesting behavior, she commented, watching Max struggle. You think so too? Miller glanced over her shoulder, then spoke quietly.
I wasn’t officially called in, but I have questions about the Chief’s death. Sudden cardiac arrest in a man with his medical history. No prior symptoms? Carson’s instincts, already on high alert, sharpened further.
Can you get access to examine him? Not without authorization, which Parker seems determined to prevent. She hesitated. The funeral’s scheduled for tomorrow morning.
Very rushed, don’t you think? As they spoke, Max continued to bark toward the viewing room, straining at his leash with growing desperation. Carson made a decision. I’m staying overnight.
Funeral home staff will be here, but I want someone from the force present. I don’t think Parker will authorize that. I’m not asking for authorization.
Carson’s voice hardened. Something isn’t right, and I trust Max’s instincts almost as much as I trusted Harrison’s. As night fell on Riverside, Carson settled into an uncomfortable chair in the funeral home’s anteroom, Max lying alert at his feet.
Both man and dog kept their vigil, neither knowing that, by morning, everything would change in ways impossible to imagine. The funeral home grew eerily quiet as midnight approached. The staff had retired to their quarters in the adjacent building, leaving Carson alone with Max in the dimly lit viewing room.
Outside, rain began to fall, droplets tapping against the high windows like impatient fingers. Carson had positioned his chair with a clear view of Chief Harrison’s casket, which now stood closed per funeral home protocol. Max had finally settled, though his rest was fitful.
Every few minutes, the German shepherd would raise his head, ears pivoting toward the casket, a low whine building in his throat before subsiding. Carson absentmindedly stroked the dog’s head, his own thoughts churning with memories and questions. What were you working on, Chief? he murmured.
The Eastside drug trafficking case had consumed Harrison’s attention for months, but lately something had changed. The Chief had become more guarded, keeping unusual hours, meeting contacts alone, behavior out of character for a man who believed in transparency and teamwork. At precisely 12.17 a.m., Max suddenly leapt to his feet, a deep growl rumbling from his chest.
Carson was instantly alert, hand moving instinctively to his holstered weapon. The dog’s focus was locked on the far corner of the room, where shadows gathered thick and impenetrable. Who’s there? Carson called, rising slowly.
Silence answered him, broken only by the intensifying rain. Max continued growling, taking a protective stance between Carson and the darkness. Police officer, identify yourself now.
A slight movement cast Carson’s eye a shadow detaching from deeper shadows. A figure emerged, male, medium height, wearing a dark overcoat and hat pulled low. My apologies, detective.
I didn’t mean to startle you. The voice was cultured, with the slightest accent Carson couldn’t place. I’m an old friend of Richard’s, came to pay my respects privately.
Visiting hours ended at nine, Carson replied evenly, noting how Max’s hackles remained raised. And I don’t recall the door opening. The young lady at reception was kind enough to let me in through the side entrance.
The man took a step forward, then hesitated as Max’s growl deepened. I see Richard’s dog remembers me. Not fondly, it seems.
Carson didn’t lower his guard. Your name? Richard James Marshall. Richard and I served together years ago.
The man gestured vaguely. I was passing through town and heard the terrible news. Carson studied the visitor carefully.
Nothing about him suggested immediate threat, yet every instinct warned Carson that something was off. The man carried himself with military precision, but his eyes darted repeatedly to the casket in a way that spoke of anxiety rather than grief. I don’t recall Chief Harrison mentioning a James Marshall.
We lost touch. My work takes me overseas frequently. Marshall reached into his coat pocket, causing Max to bark sharply.
Hands where I can see them, Carson ordered. Marshall slowly withdrew his hand, showing a business card. Just my contact information, detective.
Perhaps we could speak tomorrow about Richard’s legacy. Before Carson could respond, a sound interrupted them, a faint but distinct thump that seemed to emanate from the casket itself. Max immediately whirled, racing to the coffin and pawing frantically at its side, barking with renewed urgency.